Bright Star
by drollicpixie
Summary: It's her. Cotton candy lips, black liquid liner. She's smiling, all perfect white teeth and years of orthodontia. Tate wants to glower but he can't. He is too distracted by her youth, her beauty. And finds himself pouring her a drink almost against his will. Tate Langdon, introverted English professor, meets Violet Harmon at a dinner party. Basically a PWP. AU Violet/Tate, Rated M.
1. Bright Star

Summary - Tate Langdon, an introverted English professor, meets Violet Harmon, grad student, musician, coffeehouse employee, at a dinner party. Because sometimes I just want to take them out and have some fun. I imagine this taking place on the east coast, probably in Boston.

Violet/Tate - AU - Rated M

A/N – Basically a porn w/o plot. Well, maybe there's a little bit of plot. Written up quickly on my phone and (mostly) edited. I apologize in advance for any/all errors.

Disclaimer - I do not own American Horror Story. Just this little fic is mine.

* * *

_I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days—three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain. - _John Keats, written in a letter to Fanny Brawne

When he sees her at the party he thinks she's a teenager, an undergrad at most, and he stares, boggles. Who brought the kid? He fucking hates these things.

She catches him looking, eyes trailing down his body and then up again, leaving a slow burn in their wake. A mean little smirk graces her full pink lips, thick black lashes fluttering over caramel orbs. She cocks her head, nibbles at the corner of her mouth. His pants grow tight, restraining, uncomfortable. Fuck, he thinks, she's like a present, all wrapped up in shiny bubblegum colored paper and a satin bow. But something in her gaze tells him whatever is inside that package is nothing that he's expecting, nothing sweet.

Leah and Gabe are always having people over. And Tate likes them, he does. They were probably the only real friends he had in high school. The only ones who had bothered to speak to him at Westfield. They had kept him sane back then, kept a shotgun out if his hands, his nightmares from becoming reality, bullets tearing through their classmates.

But the fucking dinner parties they insist he attends. Every goddamn time there is a new girl he has to meet. Someone wonderful or fabulous. Someone perfect for him. It's all bullshit. None of them are the right girl. Fuck, Tate is fairly sure at thirty-two that she doesn't exist. He's not too old, he knows that, doesn't need Leah reminding him. He just feels done with it all. Tired.

Over the years, the romantic in him, spouting poetry, lines from Keats, Byron, or Shakespeare, has wasted away, leaving an embittered realist in its wake. Dating isn't his thing; trying to make conversation, cracking jokes, sharing stories about the past, hopes for the future. Tate hates it all. Can't get away fast enough.

So instead of talking to any of the women Leah has apparently invited just for him he stands by the bar they've set up, alone, pouring himself bourbon after bourbon, and thinking that he can't possibly leave without a fuss until at least ten. Or more likely, eleven. He sighs, glances out the window into the night sky, the twinkling city skyline just beyond.

"Gin on the rocks with a splash of soda," comes a honeyed voice just behind his shoulder starling him out of his reverie, his calculations on social graces.

"Excuse me?" he asks, surprised and spinning on his heel.

It's her. Cotton candy lips, black liquid liner, the skin of her face as smooth and fresh as a baby's bottom. She's smiling, all perfect white teeth and years of orthodontia.

She repeats her order. Verbatim.

"I'm not a bartender," he huffs. Not in the mood to deal with an entitled nineteen year old and her perky tiny tits, slim waist, and creamy pale legs that go on for miles. Really, what the fuck was she wearing? Oversized black sweater, hanging off her shoulder, clearly no bra, sparkling silver skirt, cut to expose every inch of her that was considered legally decent. Black knit thigh highs held in place by thick elastic straps. More like something worn by a hockey player than a pin-up girl. Patent leather lace-up oxfords. And her hair: gorgeous, golden, curled into soft locks, the bottom four inches dyed an aubergine color. And her lip is fucking pierced. Two rings on the lower left side.

The ladder rung of old faded scars running down her right wrist, honestly, one of the first things he actually noticed about her, are as appealing, sexy, to him as every other part of her slender, willowy, frame. Maybe more so.

Tate wants to glower but he can't. He is too distracted by her youth, her beauty. And finds himself pouring her drink almost against his will.

Before handing it over he eyes her again, narrowing his gaze, using it as an excuse to study her perfection further. "Is it even legal for me to give you this?"

"You the cops?" she smiles.

His mouth twists but before he can say anything further she continues, tongue poking out in amusement. "Want to see my ID?"

Tate thinks about saying yes. It would tell him her name, her address, her birthday. And he suddenly, so desperately, wants to know all of those tiny details about her. Details that he usually finds boring, meaningless. His silence only makes her grin grow, eyes twinkling with mirth, as she plucks the glass from his hand, taking a sip.

"For someone who's not a bartender you make a pretty decent drink," she informs him, moving closer into his personal space.

He fiddles with the rim of the Hendrick's bottle, putting the cork in, taking it back out, and feeling twelve years old. Awkward and unworthy. The most popular, desired, girl in class deeming to talk to him.

"Violet," she says after another moment, sticking her hand out. Her nails are painted a red so dark it's nearly black.

"Tate," he replies.

"Oh, right," she says, drink coming to her mouth, hiding her expression momentarily. "You're the friend." He shrugs, disheartened. "Leah's always trying to set you up, right?"

He has a fucking reputation. He is a goddamn joke.

"Me too," the girl sighs, casting a narrowed, angry glance at their mutual friends.

Tate looks up, astounded. Her?

"I'm always telling her to fuck off, you know?"

He nods, takes a slug of bourbon. And lets his eyes wander from her childlike face to her tits. Wonders if they're tipped pretty and pink. Rosy little buds.

"I wonder why Leah's never thrown you at me. Seems a little unfair, don't you think?" He stares back, mouth open, unsure of what to say. You're too young for me. You're too fucking hot. I want to get inside of you and never let you go. He thinks about saying all of those things but nothing comes out. "Because I can tell you, if you'd been next to me at dinner I might not have excused myself to blow a line of coke in the bathroom." She gives him a million-watt smile and he knows she's not kidding.

"Got anymore?" he chuckles dryly, surprised at himself.

"Yeah," she tells him, already tugging at his arm, "come on!"

* * *

Tate hasn't done hard drugs since high school. Pot, sure. Ecstasy, a couple of times in college. Opium, well he is an English Literature professor. Sometimes he needs to chase the fucking dragon. It's research. But cocaine?

She has them sequestered in the small powder room before he can really wrap his mind around the situation. Violet cuts perfect lines of white powder on the back of the toilet, sat, legs splayed, on the lid.

"Are we really doing this?"

"Do you not want to?" She turns to look at him, knows Tate's answer without him saying a word. Of course he fucking wants to. He also wants to strip off her panties with his teeth and fuck her on the pedestal sink, her ass falling in the basin, his fingers digging into her hips, leaving marks, the whole party wondering where they have got to.

"You know, full disclosure. I already knew who you were, before," she nods to the door, the room beyond. "I've actually been trying to get Leah to introduce us since I saw you with her at the coffee shop where I work." Her pale cheeks redden ever so slightly. He touches his belt, readjusts, eyes unable to look away from her. He feels like a fly caught in a web. Or more likely, honey. She's going to kill him but it will be utterly worth it.

Her words though have honestly stunned him. A creature like Violet? Had wanted to meet him? How could he not recall her? There was no way he could have seen her and forgotten her.

And why the fuck had Leah not done as asked? Probably, he thought, because he had finally put his foot down a few months prior. Flatly refused another blind date. She had accepted that fact only to redouble her efforts at the dinner parties.

Violet's back is to him again when she says, "You really don't remember me, do you?" and sighs, a delicate little sound. "But I guess you wouldn't."

His eyes barely leave the curve of her ass to respond, "From Pour Richard's?" He is ashamed to admit he doesn't.

"No," she shakes her head, silken fall of hair swaying across her back. "Love in Letters: Writings of the Romantics. English 312." She's still not looking at him but he's frozen in place. "About five years ago, I think."

"I was," he clears his throat.

"My professor."

Tate shakes his head, the bourbon suddenly making him dizzy. "How fucking old are you?"

Violet swings around, pulling her hair into a sleek low ponytail. "Twenty-five. Why?"

He splutters. There is no way she is twenty-five. "But you're...you look so," he gestures.

"Young?" she smirks. "I get that a lot." With a shrug she pulls a rolled bill from that crazy suspender belt, impossibly high up her thigh, and snorts the first line. "You're not too disappointed, are you?" she rubs her nose, passes him the tube. "Cause there are some real fucking creeps out there."

"No," he leans forward, does a line up each nostril, winces. "More," he thinks, "pleasantly surprised?"

"Oh," she grins. "So, you'll still fuck me?"

Tate snorts unattractively, almost choking on his own tongue. "What?" Coke had never made him hallucinate before.

"You're pretty much the hottest prof I've ever had. I had the biggest crush on you. You never noticed," she looks down at her shoes, does her second line. "You were just so into teaching, the lessons. Keats and Byron and Shelley. You never saw me. No matter what I tried. What I wore. And that just made you even fucking hotter. God, when I saw you again," Violet practically moans, trailing off.

Tate doesn't know what to say. How to respond. Instead he steps forward, grabs hold of her arms, and drags her up. Since he can't use his mouth for coherent speech, all of that being lost to him, he puts it to better use. Pressing his lips to hers, he watches as her wide, surprised eyes drift closed in pleasure, her hands immediately finding their way to his hair, tugging and making him growl at the back of his throat.

"Wait, wait," she begins a few second later, touching his face, giggling girlishly. Violet twirls practically out of his arms though he continues to grip her elbow. Her little fingers swipe across the porcelain and come up white, coated in powder. She rubs the first along her upper gums, her teeth. Offers the second two to him with a wink. Bites her lip, groans, when he accepts.

"Mmm, where," her eyes, pupils blown wide, flit across the small space of the room.

He doesn't think, doesn't need to. Tate just puts his hands on her waist, so narrow, her flesh like a flame even through her shirt, and swings her up onto the edge of the sink. His mouth is on hers immediately, her tongue darting forward to taste his lips. With a groan he opens to her. Something deep-seated, animalistic, dormant for so many years, flares to life inside of him.

Violet paws at his sweater, scratching down his front to the hem. Tate thinks she is going to grab it, tug up and over his head. But with a needy little sigh, her fingers quest lower. Tickling the skin just above his waistband, her knuckles drag down over his cock, grazing it. Tate's hips rock forward. He steps further into the cradle of her thighs, hands sliding up from her knees until he feels flesh under his palms. Smooth and soft, he tucks his index finger under a wide black elastic strap and snaps.

First it's his belt, unbuckled and left hanging open, then the button on his jeans, his zipper jerked down tooth by tooth. Her tongue in his mouth.

His nimble digits flick forward, graze warm wet cotton, and rub. Violet pulls back to study him with liquid eyes, the rich caramel color of them hypnotizing, tilts her pelvis to give him better access, a better angle.

Tate's boxers, pants, are shoved down and he finds himself hard and hot, cock weeping, in her small hand, grip lax, as she continues to stare into his dark eyes, like she's trying to memorize his face, Tate himself, the moment, all of it. Then her mouth is on his once more, teeth nipping his lip. Her hips buck. Violet shudders when he touches her mound.

"Need you," she breathes. Tate can't think of a more beautiful phrase, poetic coupling of words, that he has ever heard, read.

All he can think about is his flesh pounding into hers. The heat of her body making him sweat. But she still has her panties on and the suspender belt is in the way. Tate doesn't want to just tug them aside and fuck her, cotton stroking his dick, absorbing her pussy juice. He needs that wetness, the slap, slap, slap, as he thrusts. So with a moment's pause, his lower lip tucked between his teeth, Tate wrenches the scrap of fabric away from her, renders it in two, tugs the moist fragrant material out from under her, balls it up in his hand, tucks it away for safe keeping. Violet doesn't say a word, just pants, legs open, showing him a flash of skin, of lovely pink. Her bare pussy glistening as she watches him observe her with hooded eyes.

Rubbing the head of his dick through her soaked folds the pair let out twin groans. He nudges the bulbous tip past her entrance. Tate pauses briefly, willing himself not to cum from the sheer ecstasy of being inside her, breathing deeply, and praying that he doesn't make a fucking fool of himself. Violet lifts her hips just as he shifts, sinking deeper. "Fuck," he mumbles, seated fully, cock enveloped to the root.

She squirms, urging him on, knees knocking into his waist, arms around his neck. Tate finds a rhythm. In, out, faster, slower, faster, building the tension within their bodies. The more he works her, the wetter Violet gets, the more she kisses him, writhes, and gasps into his mouth. When he hits that spot, the one that makes her cry out against his neck, tongue lapping at the join with his shoulder, she spasms, jerks, mouth wet and open, a stuttering breath caught in her throat.

Looking at her, that face, while feeling her tight cunt encasing him, his hips nestled between her thighs, enfolded by the heat of her body, is almost too much to bear. Tate lowers his head, seeking escape from sensation, wanting to make her cum, and knowing that he is so very close to losing control.

"Harder," she whispers desperately in his ear. "Fuck me harder, Professor Langdon." And he wishes that her words weren't such a fucking turn on. Knowing that he was fucking a student. So young and fresh, begging him for it.

Tate lets go, like a man possessed, unable, unwilling, to stop his hips from snapping, roughly almost viciously, into her warm wet hole.

Violet's foot, shoe hanging half off, clears the radiator beside them. Bottles, a vase of flowers, a dish of decorative soaps, all go crashing to the floor. Her other leg is bent double, knee practically knocking her temple, held by Tate as he pounds into her. His other hand is on the small of her back, trying to stem the tide as she inches further into the white porcelain bowl, nearer the faucet.

"Oh god," she moans, a muffled sound against his ear, in his hair. He's leaning his forehead onto her bare shoulder, gasping as she keens.

Reaching out, attempting to brace herself against Tate's brutal thrusts, Violet grabs hold of the towel bar. It pulls away in her hand a moment later and she slips deeper into the sink, squawking. The man between her thighs doesn't pause, only fucks her harder.

"Oh, shit, shit," she whines, "right there. Oh, please, please, please. Yes, god," she trails off, mouth falling slack.

Violet's cunt clamps around his dick like a vice. All velvet heat, milking him. As her nails scrabble, claw, at the back of his neck leaving red welts and thin lines of blood in their wake.

When he cums, endless seconds later, strangled gasp on his lips, her boneless in his arms, it's like a goddamn fire hose going off. He fills her up, full of his jizz, pulls out, and still manages to soak her bare pussy. He's fascinated by the excess of wet mess coating her, oozing out of that little pink hole, and decides it must be the coke.

"Fuck," she murmurs, head thrown back as he pants, slumping forward again. His palm glides from her bare thigh, under her sweater, to cup one small breast. Her nipple pebbles under his thumb. "I don't usually, you know, screw guys at parties like this," Violet tells him. Tate's eyes lift to hers. She doesn't look ashamed or sorry. The emotions he feared finding there. Instead she is grinning, staring at him like the cat that got the canary. Her lids slide down, fingers finding their way back into his hair. "Usually I at least need to know a guy's favorite band before I let him inside me."

He stares, enthralled by her and already half in love. Realizing, "I don't even know your last name."

She snorts, her thumb slipping from his tangled locks, down his cheek, to his lower lip. "You're so fucking cute. You know that?" Tate ducks his head. Embarrassed and feeling silly, too old and impossibly too young all at the same time. A beat later she tells him, "It's Harmon. Violet Harmon."

Tate thinks Violet Langdon sounds better. Suits her more.

He opts to keep that thought to himself. At least for awhile.

Her chest is rising raggedly but she manages to sit up, balancing her ass on the very edge of the sink. "You tore my underwear off," Violet remarks, remembering.

Tate smirks, feels the weight of the fabric in his back pocket.

"Fuck," she huffs. "I'm going to be leaking all over the fucking place." She looks down, he follows suit. "You're already dripping down my leg." A line of milky white dribbles onto the lip of the sink. Tate imagines licking her pussy, coating his mouth with her, with him. Cleaning her with his tongue.

He finds himself oddly proud. Insanely proud. Feels like a man.

He wants to fuck her again. Take her home with him and make her breakfast in the morning. Then fuck her after she's eaten. Keep her in his bed for days, watch her in his apartment wearing one of his shirts, sharing his toothbrush. He realizes, heart pounding, that he wants to keep her.

"We could just," he shrugs, "go."

"Home?"

"My place." She smiles, pink lips and white teeth, happily tossing her arms around his neck and hugging him to her like a prize. She might have even squeaked in pleasure before she kissed him but Tate was far too distracted. "And my favorite band," he tells her, "is Nirvana."

"I knew it," she grins against his mouth. "That's so hot."

* * *

Outside of their bubble, built with cocaine and sex, and the thin walls of an old house, there is the occasional noise, the sound of things breaking, falling, crashing. And there are groans, stifled giggles. But as the guests glance to their evening's hosts neither he nor she so much as bat an eye. So the others follow suit, ignoring whatever is going on in the powder room. Though a few people swear they saw Tate Langdon, the English professor, nice enough guy, quiet, intense, lonely, obsessive, go in there with Violet Harmon, the moody, angry, drunk, grad student, musician, Leah knows from the coffee shop. It figures those two would hit it off.

"It's about time," Leah tells her husband, arms crossed over her chest, a smug smile on her face.

"I just hope they don't wreck the fucking bathroom," Gabe replies, grinning.

"For those two?" His wife's elegant brows raise, "I'd have a whole new one put in."

He stares at her before narrowing his gaze. "Ha! So, that's why you finally agreed to introduce them! You knew that was how you could win the bathroom remodel debate! Leah," Gabe shakes his head, "you are diabolical."

"And you love me anyway," she tells him. He shrugs. "Also, there was no way I could have known that they would end up in there. Tainting it. With their sex-capade." Leah smirks wickedly as her husband cringes at the visual. Adding, "And apparently breaking everything we own."

"Really?"

"Really," she smirks.

"You didn't say, happen to suggest, just off hand, to Violet, that the powder room down here was just the perfect place for a tryst at a party?" Leah opens her mouth to offer a denial but he cuts in, "Or something to that effect?"

For one fleeting second guilt flashes across his wife's face and then it is gone.

"I knew it!" Gabe announces, momentarily triumphant. "She just can't resist a challenge."

Leah changes tactics. "But Babe, would you deny one of our oldest, dearest friends happiness?"

Gabe rolls his eyes. "His happiness is apparently costing me five grand."

"Eight."

"Fucking Christ, Leah!"

"You can't put a price on quality. Just ask Tate. I bet he'd tell you the same thing."

* * *

He would have. If he had been available. As it was, it was nearly an hour after going in before the pair emerged from the bathroom and beat a hasty retreat to catch a cab back to Tate's loft.

The driver told them to, "Knock it off. No sex in my cab," three times before they made it there.

Violet didn't get a chance to say good bye or thank you to her friend but figured the other woman wouldn't mind. She was quite certain that Leah had finally gotten what she wanted. And Violet certainly couldn't argue. Not when she had Professor Langdon, Tate, pressed against her, his chest molded to her back, mouth on her neck, warm puffs of air fanning her naked flesh, his messy hair brushing her cheek.

Their friends had never thrown a more successful dinner party.


	2. Pour Richard's

Summary - Tate Langdon, an introverted English professor, meets Violet Harmon, grad student, musician, coffeehouse employee, at a dinner party. Part 2 - **Pour Richard's** - Violet's POV. Because sometimes I just want to take them out and have some fun. I imagine this taking place on the east coast, probably in Boston.

Violet/Tate - AU - Rated M

A/N – A coffeehouse trope fic. Because I've never done one before and how is that possible? Another PWP? Yes, kind of, but with a bit more plot than the last. Sex and fluff mostly. Edited quickly this morning and probably still filled with mistakes! Sorry. But enjoy!

Disclaimer - I do not own American Horror Story. Just this little fic is mine.

* * *

**Pour Richard's**

_I never knew before, what such a love as you have made me feel, was; I did not believe in it; my Fancy was afraid of it, lest it should burn me up. But if you will fully love me, though there may be some fire, 'twill not be more than we can bear when moistened and bedewed with Pleasures. _– John Keats, written in a letter to Fanny Brawne

Violet stares out over the counter, bored. Pour Richard's could be packed to bursting, a bustling little coffee shop, or it could be a wasteland. And, of course, it happens to be the latter. She can't stop thinking about Professor Langdon. Tate. He said to call him Tate. And she grins. Likes the way his name sounds knocking around in her skull. Mashed up with images of his blond head between her thighs, his mouth sticky with the taste of her as he kisses her lips. Him making breakfast, watching her devour the eggs and toast, before knocking her plate onto the floor and fucking her on his kitchen table.

"Fuck," she sighs. Her shift is inching toward its end, only a couple of hours left, but they're dragging. And there's nothing for it. Violet can't make customers appear. The café is in a fairly residential part of town, just off a major street, and during the morning rush the line stretches nearly out the door but my mid-afternoon, with lunch breaks over and the day winding down, the place is practically deserted.

Still, Violet wipes the counters, refills the pitchers of milk and cream, stocks the sugar, and keeps the espresso machine at the ready. Other than that, she fucks around on her phone, flips through a copy of _Rolling Stone_ left by an earlier patron, and narrows her gaze at the _New York Times_ crossword puzzle.

It's while scrolling through her tumblr feed that there is yet another text from her mother. She has been messaging, calling, all weekend. Since the morning after the party at Leah's, desperate to know if that 'particular man' was there. Violet never regretted telling Vivien something more. But she had been so fucking excited. Couldn't hold it in. Had to explode about it to someone. And her boss, Cordelia, her co-worker's, she liked them, but they tended to meddle. As for Leah, if Violet had brought up Tate or the aforementioned evening one more time, she was fairly certain that her friend would have bludgeoned her to death. On the spot. So in a moment of weakness, she had mentioned it to her mother, knowing it was a mistake even as the words left her mouth.

Another minute ticks by and her phone rings. Violet's eyes flit to the door, the empty tables and chairs, then down at the screen. A picture of her ten year old brother, shaggy black hair, wearing a pair of wayfarers and looking cooler than any kid his age has a right to look, flashes. "You have got to me kidding me," she mutters, picking up the offending object from the counter and answering.

"Hey, dude," she starts.

"Violet," he sing-songs, "Mom offered me twenty bucks to call you."

"Son of a fucking bitch," she curses, hearing her mother yell in the background.

"Oh," he laughs, "I wasn't supposed to tell you that."

"Jeffery," she says patiently, "please put our dear mother on the phone."

His giggles end abruptly and he huffs, "Fine. But I'm still coming there to hang out on Friday, right?"

"The whole day, dude. You and me. Whatever you want to do."

"Junior League Thrift. The Goodwill. That record shop. The guitar store. And the movies!" He ticks off immediately.

"What movie?" she asks suspiciously.

"Uh," her brother starts and most people would think that he wanted to see something rated R. Something violent or sexual, graphic. Something Vivien would never allow. But Violet knows the kid like she knows herself.

"That new Disney movie with the ice princesses?" She smiles, her elbow on the counter, her chin in her open palm. "Don't want any of the kids from school to see you?"

"Violet!" he squeaks, like he is certain she has been overheard. That she has just blabbed to his entire fifth grade class.

"It'll be our secret," she swears solemnly, inwardly excited to have an excuse to go herself. He grunts, passing the phone to their anxious mother.

"Hello, sweetheart," she says, the tightness in her voice belying her calm.

"That was a new low, Viv."

"Violet, I'm your mother. I worry. And I've told you to call me Mom. A thousand times. You're a bad influence on your brother."

The siblings, on either end of the line, groan simultaneously.

* * *

"Oh my god," Violet blurts, halting her mother's barrage of questions.

"What is it, honey?"

"I have to go."

"Shit. Do you have a customer?" The older woman is clearly disappointed, "We were just getting to the good stuff."

"Mom!"

"Alright, alright. Call me later."

"Okay," she rushes.

"And Violet?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you." Violet rolls her eyes, repeats the words back, and quickly hangs up.

A beat up, decades old, silver-gray BMW has pulled into the coffeehouse's parking lot and is turning into a space across from the door. The driver, a man, bleached blond hair, black thick rimmed glasses, sits there. Violet waits. She recognizes the car, knows it belongs to Tate. He had taken her out for supplies: food and booze, cigarettes, a couple of times over the weekend. And her heart races.

There's no mirror and she can only imagine how she looks at the end of a shift. She doesn't wear much make up to the café, it all ends up dripping off her face due to the steam anyway. So there's only black liner and mascara, chapstick, to worry about. Her hair is pulled up in an oversized bun, purple on the outside, small green bow pinned into the side. Violet feels her palm sweat and she rubs them along her thighs, over her muted navy tights and up under her high-waisted green and blue striped skirt. She suddenly wishes she had worn sexy underwear. Or no underwear. Instead she remembers the white cotton day of the week pair she had chosen in the pitch black of her tiny apartment that morning as she fumbled around trying to get ready. She's fairly certain they are not even the right day. The sweater is cute: navy angora, short, fluffy, with a boatneck. But her bra isn't lace or satin, it's t-shirt fabric with tiny pink hearts printed on it.

She honestly had never assumed, figured, even allowed herself to dream, that she would hear from Tate so soon, let alone see him. He had dropped her off at her place the night before, had begged her to change her mind about returning home. But she had work at six that morning. So with a lingering kiss, her fingers dragging along his scalp, she had left him, her phone number in his phone, a promise that he would call her on his lips.

But he's there. At Pour Richard's. Not on the phone. And with no actual warning. Violet bites her lip as he emerges from the car, looks frantically around her work station for something to do, to look busy. She feels like she's having a heart attack. Or maybe a stroke.

The door clangs open, bell chiming, as he crosses the threshold, nervous smile gracing his face, dimples on display, his hair an absolute wreck. But god, he's gorgeous. Black wool military coat, marled gray wool sweater, faded well-worn, well-loved jeans, frayed, torn open at the knee, and black Chuck Taylor's. Violet's breath catches. Fuck, she wishes she had a cigarette. Anything to occupy her hands, her mouth.

Tate's eyes take in the barren expanse of tables as his teeth nibble at his lower lip, fingers shoving his frames back into place as they slip down. Violet fucking loves his glasses. The Buddy Holly thing had never made her cream her panties before but they sure worked on him. She wants to fuck him while he wears them, watch them slide down his nose with drops of sweat as he concentrates so hard on making her cum. Wants to tug them from his face, mouth the tip of the arm like a naughty librarian, slip them on and watch the world turn hazy.

It's been about eighteen hours since she had his cock buried balls deep inside her and she doubts she can wait much longer to have it back there. Not with Tate in Pour Richard's, looking like that, looking at her like that.

"Hi," Violet breathes.

"Hi," he grins back.

She can't move as he approaches, locked in place behind the register, while his glasses begin to fog over. The coffee shop is almost tropically warm compared to the bitter snowy weather outside. Violet giggles, covering her mouth, as he pauses mid stride. Tate tugs off the frames, drops them on a table and shrugs out of his coat.

All Violet can think about is being with him. She hasn't been able to get her mind around anything else all day. Him being there only makes the situation more desperate. But she's unsure of the etiquette. They spent the weekend fucking, wrapped up in one another, the outside world slipping away. They'd drank whiskey on his couch, NPR on the radio. They'd blown lines, killing her stash, and fucked, him on his knees, her folded over the arm of the couch, long hair dusting the floor. They'd rummaged through his fridge and when they turned up nothing edible, ordered Chinese take-out, using chopsticks to steal from each other's cartons.

But those moments already felt like a memory. Something frozen in a time capsule. The perfect weekend in a bubble. What if that was it? It would be the only real experience of her entire life. And what if, right there, with him gazing at her, eyes so earnest, lips quirked in a modest half smirk, she fucks it all up?

Violet has spent years fucking it all up. Ruining everything. And she has spent a fair number of years hating herself for it. But Tate, fuck, he has a way of seeing her, listening to her, hanging on her every word, and smiling that makes her feel whole and right. But does good shit like that actually happen? In real life? Maybe she's just never seen it. Ben and Vivien Harmon had not been ideal role models in regards to relationships. Or much else. Still, Violet wants to believe. So much her heart hurts, her knees feel weak, her lungs won't inflate properly.

Tate had actually told her she was perfect at one point and she nearly died:

"So, you're in a band? You sing?" he inquired, fingers trailing through her hair, wrapping the vibrant violet ends around his digits.

"No," she kissed him, mouth open, hips undulating, demanding his attention. "I play bass."

"Oh, god. You're killing me," he groaned.

"Mmm," she had hummed, "I play cello too."

"Fuck, do you know how perfect you are?" Violet grinned against his mouth, heart racing, delirious.

No one had ever called her perfect before. Not when she was being beaten up by the other girls in high school for being weird, different. Or when she was sneaking smokes just so someone would notice, say something. When she started cutting herself, holding burning cigarettes to her pale flesh. But Tate saw those things. Saw them and used his lips, pressed his mouth to her hurts, and worshipped her.

Violet doesn't deserve someone like him. But the way he is looking at her, right then, lifting his glasses up to slide them back on his nose, makes her think that maybe he feels the same way about her.

Minutes must be ticking by but neither one of them says anything. Tate tucks his head bashfully and Violet shifts, awkward.

"Can you come around here?" he asks, finally breaking the silence, and the unexpectedness of the question must show on her face because his smile grows.

She steps around the counter, comes to stand right in front of him. She doesn't know what she supposed would happen when she did, but when Tate folds his arms around her, dragging her even closer, holding her to his body, she just sort of melts into him with a stuttering exhalation. His lips touch her temple, his fingers dance down her spine.

"I've wanted to do that all day."

Violet sighs in response, clutching the back of his sweater, and grinning manically into his front. When she finally pulls back, he's staring down at her, lip caught between his teeth again. She uses her thumb to dislodge it, reaches up on her toes, and kisses him.

His lips are cold, the brush of his nose on her cheek is icy, and she notes that his hands are spreading a chill where they rest on her lower back through the satiny fabric of her skirt.

"You're freezing," she mumbles into his mouth, admonishing him, worrying. "Let me make you some fucking coffee."

"Wait," he isn't quite ready, willing, to release her, so she smiles, watches his mouth. Violet loves his mouth. His tongue. On her, inside her. "I'm giving a lecture later this week. On Friday evening," he clears his throat, picking an imaginary piece of lint from his sleeve. "I thought you might enjoy the topic. It's actually a discussion regarding the Genevan period in the Shelley-Byron relationship in regards to the influences they may or may not have had on Mary Godwin or as you might know her better, Mary Shelley, and her writing of _Frankenstein_." Violet opens her mouth but is immediately cut off as he continues, "Of course, they were all there when the short story was first written and read, but did either man, the Romantic movement even, have any real influence over her creation or was that all just happenstance? Where and how should we classify the book, the monster and his creator? Where and how do they fit in?"

She stares at him with wide eyes, her lips forming a little 'O' shape. He wants her at a lecture. Wants to see her there. Thought about the fact that she would find something like that interesting.

"Oh fuck," Tate groans, looking down. "I'm sorry. I'm fucking lecturing you. God," he drops his hands from her body, instead rubbing his exasperated, tortured face. "I'm such a fucking loser."

Violet can't stop smiling around him, it's uncanny, unusual, so unlike her. There are butterflies in her stomach, her heart is fluttering, like a bird just let free of its cage. She pries his fist from his eye socket, tilts her head until she catches his onyx eyes. "No," she shakes her head, "you're not a loser. And I think it sounds amazing, Tate, but I have plans that night." She frowns, he does the same.

"Plans?" The gears in his head are obviously turning, trying to work out what the exact nature of said plans are, if it's a date. And she wants to laugh he is so fucking transparent, so adorable.

"My little brother doesn't have school. And it's my day off, so I promised him, weeks ago," she emphasizes, because truthfully she would love to spend the entirety of her day off with him, anyway he would have her, "that we could spend it together."

"Little brother," he repeats.

"Yeah," her face lights up, she feels it. She loves the little dude. "Jeffery. He's ten."

Violet steps back around the bar, Tate following her. "Now let me show off my skills with the espresso machine and get you that coffee, okay?" And grins when his hand finds a place on the small of her back, rubbing small circles.

"Okay."

After a moment of silence, her back to him, hands finally busy, Violet further reveals, "You know, having me, well, it's what got my parents married, I guess. And having Jeff? Is what got them divorced." Tate says nothing, just watches her, waiting for more, hanging on every word she wants to give him, every fact she is willing to share. "I mean, it wasn't his fault. Obviously. My dad's a total douche bag. He's a psych professor, started fucking one of his students when my mom was pregnant. Knocked that bitch up too, actually." She nibbles on the flesh around her thumb, gaze cast downward. "They moved out to Los Angeles. I haven't really seen him since." She doesn't know why she's talking, unable to shut up, telling him her bullshit tale of woe.

Tate exhales the breath he's been holding, inching a step closer behind her. "My dad left too. Took off with our maid, Moira, when I was nine. I don't blame him though. Constance, my bitch of a mother, is a cocksucker. Literally. She was sucking off the guy next door." He smiles wryly.

Violet's laugh starts as a chuckle and grows from there into something deep and throaty, until there are tears in her eyes, the mood lightening. When she has recovered, she turns, resting her palm on his arm, the wool of his perfectly aged sweater is so soft.

Tate suggests, "Maybe I could," shrugging, "take you guys to lunch."

"Me and Jeffery? You want to hang out with my ten year old brother? You know kids can kind of suck right?"

Tate smiles at her. "He's yours though, right? I like anything that's yours."

"Anything, huh?" she cocks a brow, smirking, melting a little further into a puddle of love-struck goo.

His face goes deadly serious, black eyes smoldering, burning her from the inside out. "Anything."

Before she can blink Tate has spun her around again, her stomach pressing into the edge of the counter, his hand wrapped almost painfully tight around her wrist, thumb tracking the line of faded raised scars, as she tries to support her weight on one arm. Her other hand is already blindly attacking his fly as she rolls her hips, making him moan, his mouth at the join of her neck and shoulder.

The shades are up, the coffeehouse door unlocked, but the parking lot is empty aside from Tate's car. She's the only one left working, it's her job to lock up at the end of the afternoon. The sun is setting, light fading into a hazy gray gloom. And fuck, she wants him. Doesn't care about customers or hygiene or what her boss, co-workers, might say. And it is abundantly clear that Tate wants her as well.

His hardness in flush against her ass, fingers sliding up her thigh, under her skirt, rubbing languidly at her heated aching center. She's soaking, wetting his fingers through cotton underwear and her tights.

Tate's teeth scrape her flesh and she moans, falling forward, her chest brushing the countertop. He releases her wrist, that hand joining the other behind her. One tugs at her tights, panties. The other rucks her skirt up. As her ass is exposed Violet feels cool air caress her skin in a beautiful juxtaposition to his heated questing hands.

Hair falls in her face. Tate's palm slides up her back, under her short sweater, to unclasp her bra, and dips around the front to cup one breast, thumbnail dragging across her nipple.

"Violet," he grunts, thrusts, when she frees his cock from his soft frayed jeans.

"No boxers?" she laughs. "Had something like this in mind all along, did you?"

"Well," he smirks into her hair, "I really was in desperate need of a caffeine fix."

"But?"

"I wanted to see you," he shrugs. Violet hums her approval, raising her hips, running the blunt head of his cock along her soaking slit. Tate's breath catches, his fingers flexing, digging into her over sensitive flesh. "Tease," he taunts.

"Uh-uh," she replies, guiding him inside and slowly lifting herself, sliding up along his length, taking him in. "It's only a tease if you don't plan to follow through."

Tate's forehead hits her shoulder with a thump before he shifts, moves, circles his hips experimentally. Violet releases a little cry, a mewl. Tugging at his arm, his wrist, until he releases her tit, she brings his hand out from beneath her shirt. She feels his pout more than sees it.

She maneuvers the digits between her lips, licking and sucking, keeping time with his thrusts. Tate pulls out and slams back in with a ferocity that takes her breath away, makes her thighs shake.

Releasing his fingers with a wet pop she is guides them downward, placing his spit-slick digits against her burning pussy, on her clit, whispering, "Fuck, oh god, right there. Touch me there. Please, please," before her words are nothing more than ramblings, nonsensical mutterings, her body moving of it's own volition, leaving her mind behind in a realm of bliss.

Tate takes to the task like it's life or death as he continues to brutally pound her from behind, little grunts slipping past her lips as he grinds her into the counter.

"Fuck," he starts, "I can't, I won't. Violet, you need to cum." She moans long and low, pushes her hips back to meet him. "Fucking cum," he hisses into her ear, teeth biting down viciously on the lobe, his fingers pinching her clit.

Violet's body clamps down on his, practically sobbing, her hands scrambling to hold onto the far edge of the counter. He snaps his hips, once, twice, and blows, her pulsing walls milking him of every last drop.

It's like she drained the life out of him when it's all over, their bodies piled one on top of the other, their naked bottom halves still connected. Violet finds her voice first. "Fuck," she breaths, "I fucking drooled all over." Tate's response is a grunt, though it sounds satisfied, proud. "That was so hot." She goes on, trying to pick herself up and failing under his dead weight. And eventually she laughs, a huffing sound, "Can you move? I think you're crushing some vital organs at this point."

He steps back sheepishly, a hand running through his wild blond locks as he tugs his pants back up, tucking his rapidly softening cock away. "So," he asks as she faces him, reaching down to yank her tights back into place, turning her skirt on her waist until the front and back are where they belong, "when are you done for the night?"

Violet glances at the wooden and brass Victorian clock on the far wall and shrugs, "Now?"

"Really?" He grins like a kid in a candy store, all boyish and gleeful.

"Yeah. Why? You wanna give me a ride home?"

"Only if by home you mean my place," and then he's pulling her close, hands on her waist. "I'll make you dinner," he whispers against her lips before kissing her.

"Mmm," she replies against his mouth. "I wouldn't have had it any other way."


End file.
